It could hardly have been by design, but Randall was dressed in a suit of pearl-grey flannel that harmonised beautifully with the background. He raised his eyes from the card, and said: “Ah, good afternoon, Superintendent! I might almost say, Welcome to my humble abode. Won't you come in?” He made a gesture towards the room he had come from. “Both of you, of course. You must introduce me to your friend.”
“Sergeant Hemingway,” said Hannasyde, his calm eyes slightly frowning.
“How do you do, Sergeant?” said Randall affably. “Ah, Benson, take the Sergeant's hat.”
The Sergeant, equal to this as to any other occasion and growing more bird-like with interest every moment, handed his hat to the servant, and followed Hannasyde into a room that looked out on to the street, and seemed, with the exception of its bookshelves, to be entirely composed of Spanish leather.
Randall picked up a box containing Russian cigarettes, and offered it to his visitors. It was declined, so he selected one for himself, and lit it, and waved his hand in the direction of two chairs. “But won't you sit down? And before we go any further, do tell me how my poor uncle was poisoned!”
Hannasyde raised his brows. “Did you then think that he had been poisoned, Mr Matthews? I understand that you described Mrs Lupton's suspicion as a canard.”
“I'm sure that must be correct,” agreed Randall. “It is very much the sort of thing I should unhesitatingly say of my dear Aunt Gertrude's pronouncements. But I have so much intuition, my dear Superintendent. Your genial presence convicts me of error. I am not at all ashamed to acknowledge my mistakes. I make very few.”
“You are to be congratulated,” commented Hannasyde dryly. “Your uncle was poisoned.”
“Yes, Superintendent, yes. You would not otherwise be here. Is it permitted that I should know how?”
“He died from nicotine poisoning,” replied Hannasyde.